


Mirror Image

by ninemoons42



Series: Two Sides and Three Shadows [1]
Category: Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Crossover, Doppelganger, Injury, Inspired by Art, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Mirror Image

  


title: Mirror Image  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: 1998  
fandoms: X-Men: First Class [movieverse], Wanted  
pairing: Charles Xavier/Wesley Gibson  
rating: NC-17  
notes: Inspired by [this scorching fan art](http://tumblr.com/x9j4egteey) by [palalife @ tumblr](http://palalife.tumblr.com). Because the only thing better than James McAvoy might be two of him, two of his characters, having sex. A similar set-up to my fic [Collision Course](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/183135.html), but this time Wesley is the time-traveler.  
This is a complete AU, if you haven't noticed, and that not just because the relationship between Raven and Charles is VERY different.

  
There must be a change in the weather if he's actually _resisting_ the idea of going out and getting a drink – but really, all things considered, it's his damn thesis on the line, and he really needs to go back and rewrite those paragraphs and....

_Are you just going to be a complaining old fart or are you going to drink?_

He looks up from his irritated contemplation of the sidewalk and he catches the briefest glimpse of Raven's eyes flashing yellow, taunting him, and he growls and he stuffs his hands in his pockets and _prays_ he'll be able to remember the items that need revising when he wakes up from the usual hangover.

Charles steps around a puddle, is almost at the door to their local – and then there's a strange rush of thoughts from out of nowhere and he freezes.

 _Goddamn it where am I this is not what I had planned is the Fraternity just that insane and what the fucking_ fuck _did they do to me this time_

“Charles?”

He can't help it. Fight-or-flight response, something he picked up when he was a child, when he had to be much faster and much more alert, never knowing when he'd be attacked or when Raven would be in danger.

The perils of growing up around a bully.

And the mind that's broadcasting at him has definitely seen his fair share of bullies, has been bullied all his life – Charles's mind spins at the images, at the delirium, at the severe disorientation....

_Chicago, 2008?_

He mentally fills Raven in, and then he says, “Help me or make my excuses, you choose, hurry.”

“You're actually going to trust me – ”

“I should have always trusted you, this is me stopping being a prat of an older brother, Raven, I've got to go.”

“You let me know the _instant_ you need any help or so help me god you're never going to hear the end of it,” she says.

“I'm never going to hear the end of my bad decisions, anyway, you might as well just put one more item on the list.” One last kiss to her temple, a fleeting brush of reassurance, and Charles is walking away, spinning around on his heel, fingers pressed to his head. _Can you hear me? You're in Oxford in the year 1962._

The nearly palpable sensation of a hand holding a gun. Finger on the trigger, ready to fire at any moment, tension and fear and pain.

 _My name is Charles,_ and he's retracing his steps. Trying to send soothing thoughts. _Charles Xavier. Let me help you._

He's walking past the mouth of an alley and there's a shadow moving there, a quiet groan and then a distinctly American accent to match the voice in his head. “Get out of my fucking head already.”

Charles feels a muscle twitch in his cheek. Keeps his own voice on an even keel as he replies. “All right. You're a time-traveler. Tell me, did you come here under your own power, or were you sent here?”

“Who the hell asks that kind of question?” The shadow in the alley is moving forward, past the bins, and.

Well.

Charles just barely manages to stop himself from crying out.

The other man seems to have just caught himself in time, as well.

It is – _disconcerting_ – to look at him.

Because Charles is looking into what is practically his own face. Same eyes, same bone structure. But the differences are just as plain to the eye. So many bruises, wounds that have just recently scabbed over. The air of someone who's just started fighting back against the world.

He casts his awareness out, further. Rough calluses on his hands, that might not really be surprising – except for the new ones, the ones that make Charles think of hand-machined weaponry. Guns, a startling number of them; knives and brass knuckles.

And – yes, he's one of them, in a way. It feels like time stands still around him, granting him superhuman speed and reaction times. Strategy and tactics. He's a very specialized type, Charles knows that now. The mouse that roared and turned itself into a weapon.

“What. The fuck.”

“Delayed reaction?” Charles asks. He takes a chance. Holds out his hand. “Charles. And I'm real, you're not dreaming, because I can tell you I'm just as surprised as you are.”

“Are you.” Flat vowels, clipped consonants.

Charles waits him out.

And then, suddenly, a hand taking his. Firm grip, almost catching on his own calluses, there briefly and then gone. “Wes. Call me Wes. You know what happened to me?”

Charles nods.

“Can you help me?”

“I don't know what I can do, yet,” Charles tells him, and it actually is the truth for once. “But it might help you to go someplace where you can be safe.”

“There's no such thing.” An automatic response.

But Wes puts his hands in his pockets and slouches toward him, and Charles nods a little and leads him back to the flat.

///

“...and the last thing I can remember is that creepy old fucker who also called himself Sloan. Aiming a gun. Not like the pieces I had. I thought I was dead, bang, everything over for nothing.

“Instead I'm here.”

Charles puts his head in his hands. It's a lot to process.

As soon as they're back in his rooms Wes simply tells him the whole story, unbidden, and it is chilling and amazing and outrageous all at once.

 _A little perspective, please,_ he thinks, wryly. _You're a telepath. Your sister is a shapeshifter. And now you know the world also has room in it for assassins who think they're doing as fate commands them to, not to mention a boy who's fighting back against those same assassins._

 _Focus, Charles,_ he tells himself, firmly.

He gets up and refreshes his cup. “Tea? Something stronger?”

Wes refuses again, turns away.

Charles steeples his hands underneath his chin and looks up at the ceiling. Wes is lying on his bed, and right now he's huddled under the covers despite the mild weather.

From Wes's words and the few details he'd plucked from his mind, from his memories, Charles is starting to lean more toward the idea that this is a temporary condition, that Wes will be taken back to his own time as soon as his wound heals.

Wound, yes, of course. No more than a graze, clipping Wes high up on his right arm. Charles will have to change the bandages in the morning, and Wes will be unable to move that arm without pain for a while – and that's probably for the best. A man with his abilities, let loose in Oxbridge – well, that's not something he's going to think about for now.

Someone must have taught Wes to hide his thoughts, to shore up his mental defenses – possibly the same Fraternity he speaks of – because he should have a full name, a history. There has to be a reason why he flinched away from the photographs of him and Raven; there has to be a progression, from the moment he first decided that he had to fight, all the way until now.

And, yes, if Charles is actually honest with himself for once – he's interested in him, in someone who looks _just like him_ , and he's pretty sure that speaks volumes about his own personality and of course he feels a little guilty about that. There has to be something inherently _off_ about seeing your own reflection come to life – and wanting to kiss him.

Charles sighs and picks up his thesis, glances at Wes – all quiet under the blankets – and he's found the place where he was supposed to start editing, he's about to pick up one of his red pens, when:

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too loudly?”

“I'm a telepath, it happens every day,” Charles says, automatically, and then he looks up, surprised.

Wes is half-in and half-out of his shirts, and he sounds muffled. “Has anyone told you to shut up?”

“Too many times, in increasingly creative ways.”

“Your sister.”

“Who wins the blue ribbon for effort.” And that reminds him – he checks in with her, and. Oh. Busy then. He leaves her a reminder and there's the briefest brush from her mind, _I'll be fine_ , and he says _All right_ and he leaves her to it, wishes her a good night.

Charles feels his eyebrows climb toward his hairline when Wes starts to laugh. It's not just for the mocking – he can tell Wes is making fun – but it's also for the scarred skin and for the...well.

Wes is beautiful.

“Am I? Never heard that one before.”

And Charles blinks and he wonders, is Wes showing off? Is that what he can do? Because he's closing the short space between the bed and Charles's chair, and those blue eyes are much _much_ darker than his, intent on him.

Charles blinks and smiles up at him. “Hello.”

There is no answer – or perhaps the pressure of Wes's lips on his own is the answer.

He asks, though, because he truly doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. _What brought this on?_

 _I need a reason?_ Wes sounds perfectly insolent and sure of himself – and he kisses exactly the way he sounds. _I'm way past all that self-analysis bullshit. You're here, I'm here, I already know you're interested because I really don't need to read your mind for that. So. I need a reason?_

Charles laughs and breaks off the kiss – Wes growls, dissatisfied – and then when he's put his papers away he surges to his feet, catches Wes's mouth on the way up, and there's a groan and he really doesn't know which one of them made that sound. A sharp nip to his lip, he yelps, and the last thought he hears is _Shut the fuck up and kiss me_ and yes, well, who is he to say no to that?

///

Hands on his skin, rough and strangely gentle at the same time.

Flash of blue eyes, again and again, darker and needing and pleading.

Charles hears himself growl, mad to touch back – but Wes has both of his wrists pinned down securely with one hand. The other – Wes twists it, _just so_ , and Charles half-arches up off the bed, groaning. Wes's laughter, mocking him and encouraging him at the same time.

Wes takes him almost to the edge and Charles keens, desperate to finish – and instead he's presented with Wes's cock, long and thick and cut, and he licks his lips and takes him in, eagerly. For a long moment he can hear the sounds he's making around Wes, he can hear the soft sounds pouring from Wes's mouth, and then Wes's voice is going deeper. Straight to Charles's own cock.

“Fuck yes, do it do it _do it_ – nnnggghhh,” and finally, that's the sound that throws Charles over the edge and Wes with him. There's almost too much of him to swallow and Charles feels some of it run down his chin – and when he pulls off Wes takes one look at him and then his voice, so wrecked, saying _“Fuck”_ and Wes is kissing him again, bitter-salt on their mouths.

///

“Let me stay here.”

“Wouldn't dream of letting you leave.”

“Oh, sure, because you're so noble and altruistic.”

Charles laughs. _Fuck no. Now I just have to explain everything to Raven, don't I?_

Wes laughs.

Charles catches the image in his mind and files it away against the inevitable future.  



End file.
